Quarter past eight at the Good Good Balloon Saloon
Bob McGillicuty was half way through his second drink. He had thought about ordering the Billy Boy Bladder Buster or the Potty Rider, or perhaps the Orange & Mango Funky Fandango, but had settled on the Chicken Skin Gin; a light and powerful concoction of broth and liquor. One hour later, Bob got the sinking feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. His phone calls to Fred's place went unanswered.
"Can I get you another drink?" asked Balinda, the waitress with the smile of bridgework and metal, "One more drink and I might look good enough to eat." Balinda had always admired Bob's work with fish. She knew one day they would get married and they would swim in the ocean together. They would look at fish, eat fish, smell fish, and glorify fish, all while in the passion of eternal love.
"A few more drinks, " replied Bob, "and I might consider brushing your hair."
"Six more drinks, and I might give you a kiss, if you're lucky."
"Seven more drinks, and I'll almost have you looking good enough for sex."
"Eight drinks," said Balinda, "And I'll tie you up with licorice whips and make a sundae on your engorged pontoon of a utility stick."
"Eight drinks would kill me."
"Have ten. I'll give you a lift to the grave."
"Fifteen drinks, and I'll rise from the dead and puke on your tits."
"Oh, Bob!" Balinda affectionately said as she smiled widely revealing a torn wasteland of ivory and tin, "You tickle me so with your witty repartee."
"Balinda," said Bob, "there's nothing wrong with you that a wrench and God couldn't fix. I think I hear the train coming, so get a life and I'll see you in a museum sometime, you old dusty bat."
Deep in the woods surrounding the estate of Matheson Avenue, a large flying office building slowly descended through the trees and made a soft landing in a small clearing. Inside the office, Miller, Melon, and Log were gearing up for the infiltration of the mansion. The gear included night scope glasses, hand held communicators, stun guns, explosive putty, fish clamps, surgical instruments, and lock picking devices. Also included in the array of equipment was a special survival bag with one canister of water, three dehydrated berries, and a stick. The standard issue Fred Pack was essential to basic survival on missions such as this.
"Everybody ready to go?" asked Ron as he positioned himself before the door.
"I'm not going. I've got work to do in the office." replied Frahn.
"Fine." Ron replied, "Just tell me what I told you before Monkey and I go."
"What?"
"I want you to say, 'Matheson Avenue is not to know the plan. We don't want a conflict of interest here.'" Frahn appeared to be numb from being requested to again memorize instructions that by this time would in no way escape him. "Frahn, did you hear me? You won't compromise the mission, will you?"
"No."
"So what you're saying is that you won't tell Matheson. Right?"
"I won't tell Matheson anything." Frahn asserted.
"You're sure about that?"
"Yes. You don't have to tell me again, for Christ's sake. I've got it. It is very clear to me!"
"OK," replied Ron, "If we're not back in two hours, take the office back to base and file a report with headquarters. Let's go, Monkey. You're with me."
Miller and Log opened the door and set out on their journey through the complicated security systems of the Matheson estate grounds, into the mansion, and to the fish of their desire. Within the fish was the Gem of Life and the untold magic it contained was sure to compel the reader to continue reading this book instead of blowing it off as some poorly executed schlock spew by some untalented writer lacking in thought or merit.